Charles led the girl deeper into the city, where the buildings kissed each other and the gaslights flickered.

They walked in silence. Charles tried not to stare at the her—he didn't want to be rude—but his curiosity got the best of him and he snuck a few looks at her as she walked under each gaslight. She was tall—only an inch or two shorter than he was—yet so skinny. Is she eating enough? he thought, remembering the nights he'd go to bed so hungry that it felt like his stomach was eating itself.

She caught him staring at one point and she looked down bashfully. "I'm sorry, Mister Abbot," she said, rubbing a dirty cheek. "I know I'm not... decent."

"It's alright," Charles said, embarrassed that he had been caught. "It's nothing to be ashamed of." He resolved himself to staring straight ahead for the remainder of their walk.

They finally stopped in front of one of the few establishments teeming with life at this time of the evening: a pub called The Rusty Nail.

"What are we doing here?" the girl asked, staring at the creaking sign overhead.

"I need a place to work," Charles explained. "Somewhere private. Somewhere safe."

The girl looked at him questioningly, but didn't object as Charles held the door open and together they walked inside.

Charles came to The Rusted Nail fairly often when he wanted a drink—or when he needed to collect a memory from someone who wanted the safety that a pub could provide. Memories were like secrets. Some people only let those go when they felt safe. The relative anonymity in a dark bar, plus the additional jolt of courage provided by a good ale, made some of Charles' clients feel a little more comfortable.

The bar wasn't too packed this early in the evening, but there were a few men here and there seated at various tables playing cards or chatting with colleagues. A fire blazed merrily in the back, beating back the chill of an early spring evening.

The barkeep nodded at Charles as they walked in, although his eyes narrowed when they fell to the girl. Charles didn't know if his reaction was because of her haggard appearance or her gender.

Charles pointed to the rear of the pub. "Need to use your back room, Tom," he explained.

The barkeep nodded and looked away; he knew the routine. Then, without gathering too many stares from the patrons inside, Charles escorted the girl to the back.

The back room was a cramped space that Charles had worked in before. Barrels of beer were stacked along the wall. A few dustpans and brooms were propped against a corner. And there was a small desk cluttered with invoices.

Charles sat down at the desk and gestured for the girl to take a seat. She sat atop a barrel, fiddling with her fingers nervously. In the light of a flickering candle, more of her features came to light: black hair with tight curls, sharp cheekbones, and long fingers. Piano playing fingers, his mother used to say.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the memory of his mother, and dug into his pocket for a vial. He always carried spares with him for moments like these.

"I've never taken a memory away before," he repeated, setting the bottle down on the desk with a nervous hand. "I don't even know if it can be done. And I don't know what the possible side effects are. You could... I could... things may end up badly."

"I'd rather be an empty shell than live with this memory," the girl said. Her voice was strong and sure, and for a moment, she didn't look so helpless.

Charles nodded. "Okay. You'll need to focus on the memory, so I know which one to take. I know it must be painful for you to think about what you saw but... I'll be as quick as I can."

She nodded.

"And if it works, the memory should end up in this bottle."

"You won't... look at it, will you?" the girl asked, staring at the vial. "I know when people usually come to you, it's because they're selling their memories for others to have. But this one is just so... awful. I can't bear to think of anyone, even you, seeing my mother like that..."

"I won't look," Charles said gently.

The girl breathed out, clearly relieved.

He took her hand; her fingers rested on his palm, rough from her life on the streets, yet warm to the touch. "I'm going to get started. Are you ready?"

She nodded. "I'm ready."

"Then let's begin."

Charles closed his eyes. He was surrounded by darkness for only a moment before he was caught in the river of the girl's mind. The chosen memory was front and center, glimmering like a diamond ready for the taking, but he hesitated in front of it, unsure what to do next. In his usual line of work, he would coax the memories, make little hints and suggestions that allowed them to duplicate so he could take his copy. But now he needed to uproot it, and he didn't know how the memory would react or what would happen to the rest of the girl's mind.

He grabbed onto the memory, a little more firmly than usual, and it let out a little shriek as if alive. Come on, he whispered, trying to dislodge it from the current. Come on out here with me.

The memory struggled against him, flailing and writhing beneath his touch. But he could feel it working. Slowly but surely, it was coming free.

Come on, come on... He pulled back now, hard, hoping to win against the memory's final resistance—and he did. It was wrenched out of the current. But his pull had been too strong, and without realizing what was happening, the shimmering lights engulfed him, wrapping through his mind, bringing him into it.

No, no, no he thought, trying to back out. He didn't want to intrude on this girl's most private, most shameful memory. But this had never happened before; he didn't know how to break away. So soon he was in the memory, reliving the moment the girl had so desperately wanted to forget.

But something was wrong. As the memory materialized around him, scenery settling into place like sets rolling onto a stage, he realized he wasn't in an alley like the girl had said. He was hiding behind a thick curtain in a dark room filled with the flickering lights of dozens of sputtering candles. From his spot, he couldn't make out too much, but he did see that there were about a dozen people in this room in dark cloaks, and a pentagram on the ground drawn in blood, and a small brown-haired boy lying limp on the floor...

The memory shifted, as if he had jumped ahead in time. Now he had locked eyes with one of the cloaked members. They pointed at him. "Grab her!" they shouted, and now they were chasing him, but he was fast, too fast for them. The world rushed by as he ran, winding through narrow corridors, jumping over railings and ledges with a speed he didn't know possible, fleeing the nightmare behind him...

With a sudden jolt, the memory released its hold on him, and he was slammed back into himself. His eyes flew open and he let go of the girl's hand with a start.

His head pounded and his heart raced wildly in his chest. He was back in the bar, in the small storeroom. The girl was still there, rubbing her head now, but she was grinning, looking elated.

"Wow," she said, her voice a gasping breath. "I... I don't remember it anymore. I... thank you." She looked up at his face. "Thank you Mister Abbot."

But Charles ignored her. He took the vial—it pulsed now with a red glow that reminded him too much of blood—and held it up to his eye. He didn't have his magnifying glass on him, so it was harder for him to scry this way, but not impossible.

The girl looked at him curiously for a moment, and then her jaw dropped once she realized what he was doing. "You said you wouldn't look," she said, leaning across the table to try to swat it out of his hand. "It's personal!"

"It's illegal," Charles said sharply, yanking the memory back. He held it close to his beating heart. "You lied to me! You said the memory was of someone murdering your mother. But that's not what happened. You saw something. Something horrible that you weren't supposed to see." His voice was shaking. "And someone knows it and now they're coming after you."

The girl stared at him in shock, but her dumbfounded expression only lasted a moment. Her face hardened and she lunged towards the door, trying to escape. Charles flung out an arm and just managed to catch her by her shawl, stopping her short.

He realized, in that moment, that she wasn't as malnourished nor as young as he had initially thought. She was thin, sure, but lithe and strong.

But before Charles could say anything to her, she spun around. Her brown eyes were so intense they were nearly blazing. And then, almost as if it were an afterthought, she swung her leg up, impossibly high.

Charles didn't even have a chance to utter a cry before her heel slammed into his temple and the world went black.